Life in Culebrón

The first time I went abroad independently was with a couple of University pals to Paris in about 1972. We went on the train. We drank filter coffee from bowls, just like Jean-Hugues Anglade, we struggled with the language, climbed thousands of steps and walked and walked and walked. I was very soon hobbling. I'm prone to blisters and foot damage in general. When I wandered around Spain in the 1980s and 1990s using public transport I would always pack all those patent foot plasters, bandages and balms designed to keep one's feet in tip top condition. We were planning to walk the Camino de Santiago . We still are. Maggie has booked flights and a room and a couple of friends are bound for Galicia at the end of May beginning of June. To be classed as having done the pilgrimage you only have to walk the last 100 kms and that's what Maggie intends to do but I have more time. I fancy the Pamplona end of the French route much more than the Galicia end so I'll do one end an...

I have friends who love to walk. They stride out across moors, along coastal paths and through forests carting tasteless cereal bars and bottles of water in their high tech backpacks. They comment on the fauna and flora and marvel at the views. I have no problem with the basic idea of walking as a method of shrugging off a mild hangover or as penance for a good lunch but serious walking has never appealed.  Now don't get me wrong. I don't have any problem with people enjoying walking for walking's sake and I definitely approve of walking as a form of transport. For instance, if I were in the British Museum and still lusting for enlightenment the walk down to the Natural History Museum, with the promise of all those landmarks along the way, would get my vote over the Tube. As a young man I worked in Leeds and often caught the last train to Huddersfield. With a following wind that train might get me in early enough to catch the last bus home to Elland but, as often as not, ...